


art brut

by kagurasbuns



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2020-09-02 05:47:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20270947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagurasbuns/pseuds/kagurasbuns
Summary: A collection of SasoDei drabbles. Updates every now and then. May take requests.





	1. Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Art brut - translates as "raw/rough art" in French.

When Deidara grew tired—which was incredibly rare, but it happened—he was the most beautiful contradiction that Sasori had ever seen. A far cry from the explosive little brat that gave Sasori hell, he looked uncharacteristically at peace in his sleep, settling atop Sasori’s lap like some delicate creature. Incoherent syllables would slip from his mouth when Sasori ran his fingers through the silk of his hair—he’d found it so amusing, because even in his sleep, Deidara still didn’t make sense. 

It  _ was  _ amusing at first, but when Sasori realized that Deidara was actually murmuring his name in his sleep, he felt a strangely pleasant ache in his core—a contradiction in and of itself. Then it made him wonder—was this the first time he’d appeared in Deidara’s dreams?


	2. Approval

Deidara is a child at heart—though he boasts an unconventional art style, he yearns to prove himself and garner the recognition from an ever elusive audience. Over the years, Sasori adds the trait to the many constants that comprise the volatile bomber: his deep love for mayhem, an awful sense of humor, an odd habit of grunting—and a festering insecurity that manifests when he least expects it, coming in short hot bursts of frustration that always fell on deaf, disinterested ears.

Sasori couldn’t care about other people’s opinions any less—he is assured in his own philosophy, and he feels no need (he feels _nothing_) to please anyone. But sometimes he will let a few words slip when Deidara dyes the earth and sky in blood and ash - “you did well” - and though his words are plain and nothing like his meticulous art, Deidara takes them to heart, his beaming smile nothing short of genuine and grateful. 


	3. Remember

Deidara presses the clay firmly, eyes closed as his fingertips sink into the mold. Red hair and brown eyes flash vividly behind his lids - but he presses too hard and the other eye is totally ruined. He tries to salvage his progress but nothing comes out quite right - _ no, that’s not him -  _ and after his umpteenth attempt to replicate Sasori’s face a thought crosses his mind -

Is he really remembering Sasori as he is, or has Deidara’s memory already failed him?


	4. Missing

Sasori has never regretted his transition - his art is empoweringly beautiful, unlike anything the world has ever seen. His puppet body severely limits his sense of touch to pressure and weight, but he finds no complaint in it - those are the bare minimum for a shinobi to stay sharp, and losing his tactile senses is a meager price for achieving eternal beauty. 

Even so, Sasori cannot fully say that he is a complete puppet because of his heart. It is the only semblance of his humanity that he has left, and sometimes - _ only sometimes _\- he will secretly admit to himself that a tiny part of him, one that definitely resides in the sinews of his core - misses the feeling of tenderness. When Deidara wraps his arms around him in an embrace that he once longed for so deeply ago, Sasori envies him just a little bit - he wishes that he’d waited just a little longer before he shed his human skin - or perhaps met Deidara much, much sooner.


	5. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll write something fluffy in Deidara's POV someday. Someday.

He visits Sasori every other night, and each time before he enters the abandoned cavern he is always scared that someone has taken Sasori’s corpse away. Deidara knows that Sasori would have wanted to be preserved forever and he wants to honor that so he visits as much as he can to make sure nobody dares touch his Master's art.

He’s managed to mourn as quietly as he can until now, when Pein has found a replacement partner for him and he can’t - he can’t quite adjust yet, he can’t just forget about Sasori because he worked best with him and nobody else can compare. They'd made art together, painting the villages red - but this is Akatsuki, and he doesn't have a choice. 

“_Sasori_.” Saying his name sends phantom blades all over his skin, peeling off layers upon layers of an indifferent facade that up until now came to him so easily—but Sasori’s death had caught him off-guard. For once in his life, Deidara struggled to adapt. To change. Everything just happened too fast. “I don’t know how to do this without you... _hmmm_.” 

The grunt he makes at the end is inarguably a cry, and he slumps defeatedly at Sasori’s corpse who remains ever unresponsive. Deidara’s cries distort into laughter at the thought—Sasori never ran out of things to mouth Deidara off of, and most of all he’d never wanted to die—but any noise that Deidara makes now does not bring him back; no complaints fall upon him, no beautifully twisted forms of reassurances pour from Sasori’s lips—the empty vessel simply keeps staring at him, and Deidara aches alone in silence.


	6. Maintenance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began going to college just a few weeks ago and I haven't had much time to write. Writing these few updates was therapeutic.

Deidara runs the oiled brush across Sasori’s skin, imagining the goosebumps his Master would get if he could still feel. 

He marks every spot as if it were a map that he’d memorized by heart, and doesn’t stop until Sasori is gleaming with wood varnish. 

Sasori’s joints clack as he stretches them and inspects Deidara’s work. He is bare and hollow, his entire body other than his face a mere imitation. He is painted in a convincingly healthy color, but the lines all over his body remind Deidara that he is no longer human; he has become one with his art. 

Deidara longs to reach the same peak that Sasori currently stands on, but for now, he is content with watching him twirl as he makes sure of his eternality.

“Good?” Deidara asks. 

“Aa.” 


	7. Maturity

Deidara’s blood is boiling. He huddles himself in the workshop, his art ruined, his pride wounded. He lost to Itachi. _ Again. _ He doesn’t understand - his traps were in place, his explosions were calculated, his attacks should’ve landed - it should’ve been Itachi who lost, not him, not again, but those eyes, those _ damn _ eyes -

“Damn it!” He hurls the chunk of clay in his hand against the wall with so much force that the wall dents and even compels Sasori to spare him a glance from his puppetry. 

Deidara huffs, anger still very much present in his system, but he forces himself to sit down before he makes a mess in the workshop. His judgment distantly echoes that Sasori is just a few feet away from him and if he doesn’t pull himself together, he might damage one of his Master’s puppets.

“God fucking damn it,” he mutters, conflicted between simply unleashing his rage with no care for the consequences or listening to the waning voice in his head that knows better.

“Patience.” 

Deidara looks up to see that Sasori had settled down beside him, and looking at his ever stoic face makes Deidara realize he doesn’t need to listen to himself - he just needs to listen to Sasori. 

Still, the dominant part of himself - the one still anchored to humiliation and anger - disregards that insight, and so Deidara scoffs. “What would _ you _ know? You’re the one who hates waiting.” 

“Sacrifice.” Sasori takes the little clay dove from Deidara’s palm and crushes it with his fist. Specks of clay dust drifted into the air as he unfurled his fingers. “If you want to beat Itachi, you have to beat him with tactics you wouldn’t usually use. Be unpredictable and subtle.” 

“But I’d be reducing my art for that freak, hm!” Deidara defensively reaches for a helping of clay and molds it into a crow. He gives the bird a look of disdain and tosses it into the air, setting off a light explosion. “I wouldn’t really beat him if I didn’t stay true to myself.”

“You can be better and still be yourself,” Sasori reasons. “You’ve taught me that, yes?” 

Deidara pauses, caught off-guard by how alarmingly close the words sound like reassurance. “Y-yeah.” 

“Then practice what you preach. Study other techniques.” Something warm glinted in Sasori’s eyes then, like a fleeting burst of affection, but it was gone before Deidara could observe it. “I will help you.” 


	8. Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now have something angsty in Sasori's POV. My guilty pleasure is Sasori being bittersweet.

Nothing hit as hard when Sasori realized that he’d rather let Deidara stay as a human than preserve him as a puppet. 

The thought of having to incapacitate Deidara and have him live through the gruesome conversion always bothered him, so he always put it off. The task was simple - he’d nick Deidara when he least expected it and carry his numb body to the same workshop that they’d both grew to nurture together. Deidara was tenacious, yes, but still human, and all Sasori needed to bring his partner down, as fiery and unyielding he may be, was one misstep. 

Still, Sasori always found excuses. Deidara had developed somewhat of an immunity to Sasori’s poisons - taking him out with his standard poison just wouldn’t do. Sometimes, they had a mission to do. Other times, Sasori decided that he’d rather work on the puppets he already had at the moment. And then, one day, when Sasori couldn’t find any reasonable excuses as to why he should put off killing his partner anymore, Sasori turned to the unreasonable. 

From that day on, Sasori’s reason became “because I said so.”

Even as the dull ache in his core hounded him to do what always made sense in his world, Sasori stood his ground_. _ It didn’t matter that Deidara was aging, that unless Sasori finally did something about it, he would die just like any other human someday. That didn’t matter, because _ he said so. _

He saw things more clearly one day, though. 

Sasori sat behind Deidara as they flew past the destruction they’d made so finely it was like true art. Below them burned and crumbled yet another village that they’d both marked as their own little canvas. Deidara smiled down at their work, his features delicately painted in the hues of the golden sunset. 

“I’ll never get tired of doing this with you,” Deidara sighed, and looked at Sasori with a big, childlike grin. The sun enclosed Deidara’s face in its ethereal, fleeting warmth. “I always have a lot of fun doing this with you, Master.” 

Sasori couldn’t explain how or why, but the answer to his dilemma suddenly dawned on him. Deidara was the sun, a force of nature that Sasori could never hope to preserve forever - something that he could only ever appreciate briefly and from afar. 

Sasori felt bittersweet at his realization, but returned the boy’s affection nonetheless. “That was a good raid,” Sasori agreed, with a small, gentle smile of his own - his pain ever invisible. 

But Deidara had always known him better than anyone else; as if to cushion the blow, he wrapped his arms around Sasori in a tender embrace that felt tighter than usual. “Thank you, Master Sasori,” Deidara said softly, and if Sasori was still human, he could imagine the warmth radiating from Deidara’s touch alone. 

Just when Sasori moved his arms to return the embrace, Deidara pulled away… but not without stealing a quick peck on Sasori’s lips. Deidara chuckled at the look on Sasori’s face as he went back to his spot. 

Sasori realized, in that brief moment, that turning Deidara into a puppet meant he would lose his spontaneity and his soul; that he’d rob Deidara of his freedom just like how he’d shamelessly stolen kisses from Sasori. 

He would rather pay the price of ephemeral beauty if it meant Deidara would stay like this with him. 


	9. Daydream

“If you could live anywhere you want, where would you want to be?” 

The other side of the workshop is silent, save for the clattering of wood and clay. 

“I want to live in the mountains, hm,” Deidara answers himself. He has gotten used to this kind of response after so many years; deep down, he knows Sasori heard him loud and clear, but simply couldn’t be bothered to spare Deidara his thoughts. That was fine, though—all that Sasori needed was time and a soft push. “Ideally somewhere with rare minerals to make the best clay. A high cliff sounds nice too, so I don’t need to summon my bird all the time to see the view. It feels good to be so close to the sky. It makes you feel free. Don’t you think so too, Master?”

As Deidara keeps working on the wing of his clay pterosaur, Sasori breaks the spell of quiet in their ambient workshop: “I want a beach,” he pipes up. 

“A beach?” Deidara blinks. “Hm, that makes sense. There’s not much water in the desert, yeah? And because there’s sand, you’ll still feel in your element.” 

“Correct.”

Deidara considers Sasori, who is facing opposite him, hard at work in his puppetry as always. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what he could be thinking or feeling. In his head, Deidara can only imagine Sasori, thirsty and weary from walking endlessly in the scorching desert, glimpsing mirages amongst the dunes. Deidara swoops in, taking Sasori away from the unforgiving sun and to this imaginary place that they’ve yet to find—or create. They could definitely make it happen. 

“Someday, we’ll be free,” Deidara muses out loud, imagining the faint smile on Sasori’s lips. 


	10. Warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual prompt was longer and a Chinese phrase suggested by my friend Winter: "a delivery of coals in the snow."
> 
> Also, I have a HC that Sasori helped Deidara train when he was still a newer member in the Akatsuki. Sometimes we forget that Deidara was kiddie Naruto's age when he joined. I imagine Sasori being a cool senpai/danna for Deidara and teaching him new tricks.

“It’s getting late,” Sasori sighed. “We’ll stop here for today.” 

Deidara rested against a strong, aging tree as he caught his breath. A cool gust blew away the heat trapped in his body and the sweat on his skin. The forest thrummed with crickets in the evening as if to sync with his racing heartbeat. He closed his eyes and wished he could just sleep.

“Hurry up,” Sasori said. 

Deidara glared at him wearily. “Not everyone’s got an untiring body like you, yeah?” He complained as he got up on his feet anyway and began shuffling out of the forest. “Let’s get something to eat first, hm.” 

“If I made you a body like mine, you wouldn’t need to worry about hunger anymore.”

Deidara pouted. “That’s just an excuse so you don’t have to pay for my food.” 

“It’s not cheap to keep feeding you, brat.”

“Well, I can’t help my bodily needs, can I?” Deidara shot back. “And no, I don’t want a puppet body. I’d rather leech off of your money so I can keep eating good food, hm.”

Deidara clumsily vaulted over Hiruko’s tail strike. “I thought training was over, Master!” he complained. 

“Training never ends,” Sasori retorted. “Weren’t you listening when they told you that in the Academy?” 

“Well, you clearly weren’t listening either when they said to value your comrades!” Deidara winced at his weak reply. 

“Oh? You don’t feel ‘valued’ even with all the special treatment I give you?” Sasori teased. “You’re my favorite kouhai.”

Deidara’s cheeks burned at that. He’d let Sasori have the last word for now—only because he was too exhausted for good banter. He was usually the one goading reactions out of Sasori. But that was fine—once he got his energy back, he was going to get his revenge!

They reached a small town’s street filled with food stalls. Deidara rushed for the stall selling boiled eggs, with Sasori trailing behind him. “Slow down, brat,” Hiruko’s gravelly voice traveled from across the street, scaring a couple of passersby. 

“I’ll have five,” Deidara told the vendor brightly. He watched at the eggs boiling in the large pot intently and envied the customers who got theirs earlier than his. 

His patience finally paid off and the vendor gave him his dinner. Deidara wolfed down the eggs in a matter of minutes, enjoying every last bite. 

“Let’s get out of this crowd,” Sasori told him. 

“Not before I get another serving,” Deidara winked. He could feel Sasori’s eyes rolling from inside of Hiruko. 

When Deidara finally got his second helping, they went to the quieter side of the town—a small riverbank with some benches and flowers. The moon glowed above them, reflecting off the water and cocooning the place in an ethereal light. Deidara sat on a bench as Hiruko settled beside him.

For the first time that day, Deidara finally had a chance to think. Ever since Sasori had begun helping him train, he didn’t get many windows for his thoughts. As soon as training finished, Deidara would return to the hideout and fall asleep right away. He’d wake up the next morning, and the process would begin anew. 

He didn’t mind Sasori’s fast-paced style at all, but he did appreciate little moments like these. While Sasori waited for Deidara to finish his food, the latter would fill the air with chatter. Deidara liked it for the small opportunities to get to know Sasori better outside of training and missions. 

They could banter endlessly about art, and Deidara honestly wouldn’t grow tired of it—but sometimes he’d feel soft, and remember that after so many years under Onoki’s strict tutelage, he had always secretly longed for guidance with a gentler touch. Something in between a friend and a teacher. 

There was only one boiled egg left. Deidara looked at it for a moment, then at Sasori, and smiled. 

“Hey, Master Sasori?” 

“Hm?”

“I know I can’t win this argument with you, but…” A warm feeling spread across Deidara’s chest. “Sometimes it’s nice to be a human.” 

Sasori scoffed. “Don’t go soft on me and start rambling about the past.”

Deidara puffed his cheeks. “I’m not,” he said softly. “I’m just saying. There’s only one egg left and I’d give it to you, but you aren’t—”

“Keep your voice down.”

Deidara rolled his eyes. “But you’re not… you know what,” he muttered. 

“So? Now what?” Hiruko’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “If this is your attempt at proving a point, then you’re a fool.” 

Deidara sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. But,” he bit into the egg and chewed with gusto, “maybe someday you will.” 


End file.
